


Attack the Bock

by Bittersweet_in_Boston



Series: I’m Here to Take Care of You [3]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Awesome Clint Barton, BAMF Maria Hill, Bock Labs, Deaf Clint Barton, F/F, F/M, Johns Hopkins University, Mild Big Ten sports rivalry humor, Protective Clint Barton, Science, Shady department chairs, Some arrow injuries, The violence isn’t that graphic, University of Wisconsin-Madison, microbiology
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-15
Updated: 2019-07-15
Packaged: 2020-06-29 03:22:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19821517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bittersweet_in_Boston/pseuds/Bittersweet_in_Boston
Summary: You are a superstar lab director at Bock Labs at University of Wisconsin-Madison specializing in virology who gets a mysterious visit from a Mr. Pierce one afternoon. Later that night, you get more visitors in your lab, including your new colleague Dr. Barton, and things get interesting...maybe a little *too* interesting.





	Attack the Bock

“Holy shit!” Your assistant scientist turns to you after tossing off this dramatic (and yet completely apt) exclamation. You brush some fuzz off your lab coat and lean back heavily against a workstation. You give her a disbelieving smile, shake your head, and say, “I know, right???”

It’s 5.30 pm and you two are alone in the lab; you sent the postdoc and grad students home early. The only other noise in this cavernous room is some beeping from a long-term cellular test and the hum of the refrigeration for the cell sample storage unit, a smaller space carved out of the larger lab with a shorter roof and its own door. You take a deep breath and think back over this very unexpected Thursday in late November.

You are an associate professor of molecular virology and oncology at the University of Wisconsin-Madison and the director of your very own lab at Bock Labs on the Madison campus. You are 36, phenomenally young to run your own lab, but you are also a superstar. You got your molecular biology B.S. early from Harvard, finished your PhD at Oxford in four years, and then did postdoc research at Johns Hopkins for three years before Madison scooped you up. You got your own lab three years ago at the same time you got tenure, thanks in part to a MacArthur Genius grant and a huge gift from the Hughes Foundation. Some peoplemay be jealous of your success, but they also can’t argue with your amazing ability to attract funding.

Your research focus is the human cytomegalovirus (HCMV) and how it can replicate within healthy and not-so-healthy human cells. HCMV understands cellular development and replication better than just about anything else out there, and you believe that once we understand it, we will make huge progress toward treating diseases that affect cells, particularly cancer. Others are studying HCMV, but your hypothesis is that thorough knowledge of this virus could lead to altering its structure and using it in a weakened form to actually treat (and cure) certain cancers and debilitating diseases such as Parkinson’s.

And recently, your hypothesis is looking like it could be correct. You and your team were notified six weeks ago that you’d been given an award for distinguished research in the biomedical sciences by the AAMC (Association of American Medical Colleges), after you’d submitted a major research paper and reported associated patents on samples that showed that an altered and attenuated HCMV virus your team had developed had not only destroyed cancerous cells, but made the surrounding cells stronger. It’s a major breakthrough, and you and your team had been written up in the _New York Times_ and _Scientific American_. Your boss, the Vice-Chair of the Institute for Molecular Virology at the university, had been extremely pleased and hinted that a full professorship was in the works.

And then...today. You look at Phuong Tran, your assistant scientist, scratch your head, and say, “Did I really kiss off a hundred million dollars and basically tell our boss to fuck off?”

She chuckles and says, “You really did. You are the world’s biggest badass, my friend.”

“Either that or I’m the world’s biggest dumbass and I’ll be fired tomorrow.”

Suddenly there’s a knock at the lab door. You see through the narrow window that it’s Dr. Barton from the lab down the hall, and hurry to let him in.

Dr. Clint Barton is a new colleague at Bock Labs and...a friend? You think? He showed up at your lab door six weeks ago, introducing himself and saying he was a visiting professor working on RNA pathogenesis with Dr. Palmenberg down the hall for a semester. Many fellow microbiologists are not exactly people-proficient but he is charming and funny and suitably impressed by you and your work, and you two instantly hit it off. It doesn’t hurt that he’s over six feet tall, with dark blond hair and crinkly blue eyes, and can obviously find the gym in his off hours. Even now his broad shoulders and impressive biceps are visible under his lab coat.

He also has small, almost undetectable hearing aids, another bond between you as your younger brother is hearing impaired. You’ve spent a number of lunches in the cafeteria making mild jokes about your colleagues in ASL. You freely admit to yourself that you are strongly attracted and would absolutely go out with him, except for your iron-clad policy of never dating or even having quick flings with co-workers.

(It’s better this way, you think, having seen the nuclear fallout from relationships among lab team members that go south, sometimes in spectacular ways that are murder on budgets for glassware. You have an ex-boyfriend at Madison, but he’s in the Economics department across campus so awkward encounters are almost non-existent. Although you do often concede that you wish you’d made an exception to your policy for Barton, especially late at night when you’re lying awake, lonely and horny in your apartment.)

Barton strides up to you both, looking excited. He hugs you (hey, you don’t have an iron-clad policy of never *touching* co-workers) and high-fives Tran. “I heard Smithson was here earlier with some bigshot,” he says, practically vibrating. “Another grant for you? Some new prize celebrating your brilliance?”

Tran barks out a laugh, saying, “Says the dude who’s got a permanent stipend from the Stark Foundation.” You and she tease Barton about this mercilessly but are secretly jealous because it’s well-known that the Stark Foundation’s grants are super super generous.

“Heh heh,” he says, grimacing and rolling his eyes. “Whatever. Now spill.”

You sigh and say, “No new prizes. Smithson was here with some guy, Alexander Pierce, from one of those big A&D conglomerates - you know, not Raytheon, but something like it.”

At the mention of Pierce, Barton opens his eyes wide, but then he neutralizes his expression and says, “A&D? Why would an A&D guy be interested in anti-cancer virology? Wouldn’t a pharma company make more sense?”

You shrug your shoulders. “Yeah, we usually hear from the big pharma and biotech firms and did some work with Novartis a few years ago. And the NIH of course,” you add hastily.

“So what did this Pierce guy want? Just a tour?” Barton asks.

“Yes, a tour, but then he asked me a zillion questions about the latest samples and what they looked like and how far along they were and whether we’d ever thought of applications beyond healthcare and oncology,” you answer dryly.

Barton’s eyebrows raise up his forehead. “What kinds of applications?”

You shrug. “He wouldn’t say,” you respond, “but at the end of the visit he offered the Institute $100 million in funding for our research if his team could get access to our samples.”

“Holy shit,” Barton says, and Tran nods vigorously.

“That was my reaction too,” she blurts out.

“Anyway,” you say, “I told Pierce I’d have to think about it, but that we didn’t usually share our samples for non-healthcare applications. He didn’t look happy but he said, ‘Of course, I understand,’ shook my hand, and Smithson escorted him out. But then Smithson came back 15 minutes later and started to badger me about accepting, saying how much it would benefit the lab, how much good we could do with all that extra funding - you know, the usual department chair bullshit.”

“Of course, yeah,” says Barton. “What did you tell him?”

“That I wasn’t about to just turn over our latest cultures to some random dude who makes weapons, just because he was willing to fork over a shit-ton of money to get them.”

(You are very good at sweet-talking to get grants and funding, but you’re also not shy about calling out bullshit when you see it. And to your mind, this certainly qualifies as bullshit.)

Barton opens his beautiful blue eyes wide. “Wow,” he says. “Straight talk. What did Smithson say back?”

“Tried to convince me some more how great it would be for the department, and then got mad and implied that if I didn’t go along with it, he’d pull my University funding.”

Barton inhales through his teeth, and Tran shakes her head. “And then...?” he prompts.

You color a little and run your fingers through your hair. “And then I may have told him to try it, and watch how fast I left Bock Labs and took my dolls and dishes - and patents and samples - back to Johns Hopkins,” you say, a little bashfully.

“You basically told him to fuck off,” Tran says again, grinning and practically dancing in place. Now you’re really embarrassed.

You turn to her and say, “Don’t you have a dinner to go to?” She says, “Oh yeah! I almost forgot.” She turns to Barton and explains, “It’s Chinara’s birthday and I’m taking her to Graft for dinner tonight.” Chinara Adeyemi is Tran’s girlfriend and an assistant professor in the engineering school.

Tran turns to go, pulls up short, and says, “Is this OK? I mean, d’you want me to stick around to figure out what to do about all this?”

“Nah,” you say fondly, joke-punching her in the shoulder. “We’ll work it all out in the morning when everyone’s had time to calm down. In the meantime Barton can hold my hand and braid my hair while I stress-eat ice cream and cry.” You smile cheekily at Clint and he winks back at you.

Tran stands for a moment, uncertain. You push at her. “Go, go!” you say. “Tell Chinara to have a great birthday and I’ll buy all her drinks next time we go to Genna’s.” She smiles, hugs you, and skips off to gather her stuff and exit the lab.

As the door closes behind her, Barton turns to you, more serious now.

“Really, though, what are you gonna do?” he signs. “Will you talk to Smithson tonight? He was in his office a little while ago - at least the light was on.”

“No, I won’t,” you sign back, stubbornly. “Like I said, we need a cooling-off period. I’ll catch him first thing tomorrow - he’s usually in early on Fridays.”

“But what if he doubles down? What will you do then?”

“Then I’ll call Gonzalez at Johns Hopkins and see what she can do for me.”

Barton shakes his head. “I don’t like it,” he says out loud, frowning. “Something’s not right here. You shouldn’t have to blow up your lab just ‘cause some defense industry asshole can’t have your stuff. Hey, let’s go grab some dinner ourselves and talk it out. I’ll take you to The Coopers and we can destroy a cheese platter.”

You shake your head. “I want to finish some experiment notes tonight and check on that cellular test before I head home,” you say. “Thanks for the offer, though.”

“You sure?” he says, wiggling his eyebrows and trying to sound enticing. “Cheese platter...a nice gimlet...?”

“I’ll just grab a sandwich on the way out,” you say, definite. “Rain check? Tomorrow night?”

“Sure,” he says, obviously not happy about it but making an effort to be casual. “I’ll buy you as many gimlets as you want after you’re fired and out on the street.”

“Ha fucking ha, buzz off, Barton,” you say, laughing and pretending to give him a noogie while you push him away. He grabs your arms gently but firmly and folds you into a fierce hug.

“Take care of yourself,” he whispers in your ear, then moves his lips down to give you the ghost of a kiss on your neck. Your stomach tightens and you suddenly wish he’d do more than just hug you. A quiet gasp escapes your throat as, not for the first time, you regret that iron-clad no dating colleagues policy.

Barton smirks as he pulls away from your neck, as if he knows on just how tight a rein you’re keeping yourself. Then he straightens up, smiles, and signs, “Til tomorrow!” then gives you the cheesiest pair of finger guns you’ve ever seen.

You mock-groan and say, “Goodnight, Clint!” and turn away before you see him leave the lab, though you hear the door close behind him.

*****

It’s now 9.30 pm and you’re still in the lab. Those experiment notes took longer than you anticipated and you had to make some adjustments to the long-term cellular test. And then you got wrapped up in reading a draft of an article Tran wrote that she wants to submit to Cell Host & Microbe next month.

You look at the wall clock and sigh. You hadn’t intended to stay at work this long, but you know that sometimes even basic science tasks take longer than you think they will. And it’s not like this is the first time you’ve stayed late, at this lab or any other lab you’ve ever worked in. At least you ran out at 7 and grabbed a sandwich and a cookie from the cafeteria before it closed.

Now you’re exhausted and you haven’t even mapped out your follow-up talk with Smithson tomorrow morning. Oh well...you’ll go home and get ready for bed, then jot down some notes. You walk toward your desk to take off your lab coat and put together your laptop bag.

CRASH

The sound of breaking glass stops you in your tracks. You look up sharply toward the door; the narrow window is shattered and pieces of glass are falling on the floor. An arm reaches in to open the door from the inside, and as it swings in it suddenly occurs to you to wonder why the building alarm system isn’t going off, seeing as this appears to be a break-in.

Before you can react further, two large men have entered the lab and take military stances on either side of the door. An even larger man then slowly swaggers in. Dark hair, dark eyes, well over six feet with a chiseled jaw and cheekbones. You might even find him attractive but you prefer your men with about 100% less toxic masculinity. He sees you frozen by your desk and smiles. It is not a pleasant smile.

“Hey, Doc,” he says, a sneer in his voice. “Didn’t mean to catch you by surprise, but we’re here to collect some valuables.” You come back to yourself with a start. Thieves? Really? In your lab?

“Sorry to disappoint you,” you say in your best ice-queen-professor voice, “but there’s nothing valuable here. No gold or rare metals. And electron microscopes are hard to sell on the black market, being certified and everything.”

Toxic Masculinity just laughs and starts moving toward you.

“We’re not interested in that stuff,” he says. “We want the samples in the fridge.” He flicks his chin up behind you toward the refrigerated unit. You just stop yourself from dropping your mouth open and say, “But those aren’t worth anything. You can’t sell those.”

“Oh, Doc, they’re worth a lot to certain people. Now c’mon, be good and open the fridge for us. It’d be a really shame if the superstar PhD got...hurt...when their lab was ransacked.”

Your blood runs cold and you understand fully that the alarm has been disabled and the police are not coming. Help is not on the way. The two men by the door take a step forward and pull electric shock sticks out of their jackets. You wish you could get to your phone but it’s in your bag five feet away. You are contemplating doing something brave and horribly foolish like diving for it when suddenly a voice comes out of the darkness behind you.

“Hey, Rumlow,” the voice says. “Fancy running into you and your minions here, of all places. In a lab in Wisconsin. I mean, what are the odds?”

The voice sounds familiar yet not familiar, and then you realize - it’s Clint. But this isn’t Happy Buddy Clint, this Clint sounds menacing. Deadly. Like he’d calmly pump someone full of lead and then saunter away. Like he’s got your back, even in a terrifying situation. Like he’d do anything necessary to protect you. The hairs on the back of your neck rise up but you can’t deny that it’s sexy as hell.

“Rumlow” hisses “BARTON!” through his teeth and makes a barely perceptible movement with his right arm. His henchmen reach for their jackets but...

THUNK THUNK THUNK THUNK

...and before they can even touch their holsters four heavy steel arrows come out of the darkness and pin both their jacket shoulders to the wall. Before they can make another move, two smaller arrows issue from the gloom, followed by what sounds like a two small tinkling explosions, and the two men are out cold, smaller arrows carrying ampules with some sort of knockout spray protruding from the wall next to their faces.

All this happens before you or Rumlow can react. The chief thug looks incredulously back at his men, and then behind you up toward the ceiling. You sneak a glance toward the refrigeration unit and make out a shadowy figure crouched on top of it. It’s definitely Barton, but...what is he wearing? Not a lab coat. You remind yourself that you’re still in danger and shouldn’t get distracted, and turn back to Rumlow.

“So, Brock,” Clint says. “I see you haven’t learned your lesson yet about threatening innocent people. It’s funny that after Boston you’d think twice about pulling this kind of shit.”

At the mention of the word “Boston,” Brock winces slightly and then you notice a yellowing bruise on his right jaw and the remnants of an almighty shiner around his left eye, as well as a two-inch long gash on his forehead that - holy crap - still has stitches in it. You wonder who could have administered such an impressive beating to such a jacked guy, and then you’re not sure that you want to know.

Brock snarls, “Stay out of this, Birdbrain, it’s none of your business.” Birdbrain? Why is he calling Clint “Birdbrain”?

“Oh, Hydra is always my business, Brock,” says Clint.

At the mention of the word “Hydra” (Hydra? What is that? You’ve never heard it before in your life), Brock hisses through his teeth and seems to coil up like a spring. You realize that he’s going to grab you and use you as a human shield to make Clint stand down and still leave with the samples. And you. Your fight-or-flight surges up and you start backing up quickly to get away. But you trip over a lab stool, twist your ankle, and go down in a heap on your ass.

At the same time Brock leaps forward and reaches for the gun in his underarm holster.

THUNK

And another steel arrow flies through the air and pins Rumlow’s right hand to the nearby lab table. “FUUUUUCK!!” he roars and flails with his left hand to try to free himself. And again, the smaller tinkling explosion, and he’s out cold, pinned like a specimen to the black surface.

All of this takes place in five minutes or less. You sit on the floor, dazed. What just happened? Who are these guys? Who the fuck is Clint? You’ve never met a microbiologist before with that particular set of...specialized skills. You look up at Rumlow, unconscious and sprawled across the lab table.

You hear a very light noise behind you, and you realize that Barton has just jumped off the top of the refrigeration unit, quiet as a cat. You turn your head and he appears in your field of vision...

...and what a vision. Black leather vest with a full sleeve on his right arm and no sleeve on his left, broad shoulders and ridiculous biceps bulging. Black harness attached to a quiver full of arrows and what looks like a long sheathed sword on his back. Heavy black and gold leather gauntlets. Skintight black tactical pants tucked into dark brown boots. Carrying a massive black bow over one arm and a longish black leather coat with dark red trim over the other.

“...Clint?” you say uncertainly as he strides quickly toward you.

“Yes, it’s me,” he says in a much softer, sweeter voice than the don’t-fuck-with-me tone he just used with Rumlow. “I’m so sorry I scared you. Are you OK? Are you hurt?” Your ankle twinges as if in response.

“Nah, I’m OK.” You match his muted tone. “Just twisted my ankle as I fell. What was...who are...what happened...I don’t even know where to start with all this.” You shake your head. He puts down the coat and bow and kneels at your feet, cups your face in his hand, which is large with calloused fingers, and gives you a dazzling smile.

“Well, first of all, I’m not Dr. Barton. I mean, I *am* Clint Barton, but I’m not a microbiologist.”

“Yeah, I kinda figured that out, given...” you gesture at him “...this whole deal. Who are you really? Why are you here?”

“I’m here to take care of you,” he signs, and then moves his hand from your chin to stroke your hair. “As soon as you won that award, we knew you’d land on Pierce’s radar, so they sent me to...look after you.”

As you start to sign, “Who’s ‘they,’” Barton moves his hand to your ankle and says, more urgently, “We have to get out of here now. Can you stand?” You tentatively roll your ankle around; it hurts a bit, but not excessively and it doesn’t appear to be swelling up. You nod, and he reaches out to help you up, gently and carefully. When you get to standing, you’re wrapped his strong, strong arms, and you say, “So...you’re not really a colleague? I mean, at Bock Labs?”

“No, I told you—“ but you lean forward and cut him off by fastening your lips onto his. You know it’s not an ideal time for this but you can’t help it; you’ve been wanting to do this for so long. He immediately kisses you back, and his lips feel even better than they look - warm and soft and strong. Soon his mouth opens and you feel his tongue lick across your lips. You groan and open your mouth, clutching him even more tightly. You feel like you could kiss Clint forever...until you moved on to other things...

After a minute or so, though, he pulls away reluctantly and smiles. You say, “Oh God, I’ve been wanting to do that for weeks now.” He nods and says, “Me too.” His pupils are blown and his breathing is heavy, and you feel your own desire continue to surge. Your throat is tight and your breath comes in short gasps.

Then Barton seems to come to himself and says, “OK, we really have to go. That anesthesia only lasts for like an hour. Where’s your stuff?” And he picks up coat and bow and slings both over his shoulders. You point to your desk, and he hurries over to put your laptop and purse in your larger bag, along with some papers. Then he turns to you and says determinedly, “We need to take the samples.”

“Wait...what?” you say incredulously. “Those samples are university property.”

“Don’t you have the patents?”

“Yes, in a sort of joint agreement. But if I just take them, that’s theft... what am I gonna tell Smithson? And what—”

“What do you think Brock and his thugs were planning to do here?” Clint cuts you off. “They were going to steal the samples - and possibly kidnap you - to give to Pierce. And Hydra. And I’m not convinced that Smithson isn’t in on it, or at least willing to overlook a lot of bullshit for that hundred million dollars.”

“Wait, what is this Hydra thing? I thought Pierce worked for that defense conglomerate.”

“Yeah, but that’s just a cover. I can’t get into it here, but Hydra is a bunch of bad dudes with bad ideas. C’mon, let’s go.” Clint pulls a sizeable metal case from behind your desk and heads toward the refrigeration unit. “This’ll keep the samples safe and stable in transit.”

Your head is spinning, but you realize the urgency of getting out of Bock Labs as soon as possible, so you hobble with Barton to the unit, unlock it, and help him carefully place the cultures into the case. Then you both head out of the room as fast as you can. Your ankle may not be sprained, but it is very sore. Barton puts his arm around you as you exit your lab, stopping on his way to retrieve the arrows he left in and around Rumlow and his henchmen. You try very hard not to listen to the combination sucking/cracking sound as he pulls shaft and barb through Rumlow’s hand, but you wince anyway. The men’s bodies, no longer held in place by arrows, slump to the floor.

“Sorry,” he says softly as he wipes them off and returns them to the quiver. “I know it’s awful, but they were ready to do awful things to you, so I had to stop them.” He kisses you on the forehead.

“I know,” you say with a shaky voice. You both head out the door and toward the elevators.

*****

On the elevator, you lean against the back wall and say, “Holy shit. Did that really just happen?” Your head is still spinning. Nothing like this has ever happened to you before. You still can hardly believe it *did* happen. Your mind, so deft at answering scientific questions, is not quite prepared for secret evil organizations and giant thugs in leather jackets and Clint as an action hero. Clint grins, puts down all the stuff, and reaches out for you.

“Yeah, it really did. I know. It seems crazy. But it’s OK, sweetheart,” he says, putting his jacket around you. “Put this on. I’m here. I’m with you. We’re getting out of here.” He hugs you gently to him and tenderly kisses your lips. “I know this is a lot,” he says. “I’ll get you to the car and then you can relax. Eat this.”

He pulls a square of dark chocolate out of a pocket in his tac pants, unwraps it, and feeds it to you. The chocolate tastes bitter in your mouth, but you force yourself to chew and swallow. Clint gives you your water bottle and you take a few swigs. The elevator dings for the first floor and Clint puts his arm around you to help you out.

“Will they be arrested?” you ask quietly as you walk toward the door. You can’t get the images of the men, threatening and then pinioned, out of your head.

“Nah,” Clint says, scanning the area around you as you walk toward Henry Mall. He then touches one of his hearing aids and says something in a low voice that you don’t catch. The night is cold and cloudy, with a faint smell of snow in the air. “They’ll be long gone before the police get there. They disabled the building alarm system, so the break-in probably won’t be noticed until tomorrow morning.”

“But what about Smithson?” you persist. “If he’s in on it...”

“There won’t be evidence,” Clint says, shaking his head. “But we can look into his activities and see about getting him removed from his position.”

“Who’s this ‘we’?” you say as you approach an empty car parked on the Mall. Clint looks uncomfortable.

“Remember I told you I worked for the Stark Foundation?” he signs. “Yes,” you sign back.

“That’s sort of true. I’ll tell you on the plane.”

Suddenly you feel someone’s hot breath on your neck and hear the unmistakeable click of a pistol. Out of the corner of your eye you see a large man in black, pressing his semi-automatic to Clint’s head. Clint slowly drops his packages and puts his hands up, signing for you to do the same and mouthing a quick “it’s ok.” You raise your arms and try to keep the panic from rising in your throat.

“Gimme the case, Birdbrain,” the man hisses. “Do it now.” You look at Barton, and he looks back at you and winks. You’re not sure how he’s so cheery right now, and then you realize he’s going to do something brave and stupid.

But before he can do anything brave and/or stupid, there’s a dark flash behind the thug, a light but decisive tapping sound, and the bad guy and his gun drop heavily to the ground.

“Thanks, Hill,” Clint says happily, and stoops and picks up the gun along with all the stuff. You turn around to face a tall, beautiful, dark-haired woman in a navy-blue tac suit who looks like she could easily body-check you out a window. She smiles at you.

“Hi there, I’m Maria Hill. I’m your backup,” she says, helping Clint put the bags and case in the trunk of the car. “I’m sorry for the extra scare. I spotted this guy 20 minutes ago, and Barton and I decided to flush him out to make sure there weren’t any other Hydra assholes lurking nearby. I probably should’ve just taken him out then, though, you’ve been through enough tonight.”

“Nah, it’s-s-s ok-k-k,” you reply. “I’m alr-r-r...” but you can’t finish because your teeth are chattering so hard and you are starting to hyperventilate. Well, here’s that panic attack. Hill looks sharply at Clint and says, “Both of you get in the car now. The quinjet is at Dane County - as soon as we board we’ll look at your ankle and get you warmed up.”

Barton immediately scoops you up and deposits you gently in the back of the car, buckles you in, and pulls a light fleece blanket over you up to your neck. He pulls a large first aid kit from under the car seat, fishes out an ankle brace, removes your sock and shoe, and carefully slides it onto your injured ankle. Then he settles in next to you, grabs your hand, and forces you to look at him.

“OK, now breathe with me.” He breathes slowly and regularly, and you try to mimic him. He gives you a heart-eyes emoji look and signs, “You are so gorgeous.”

“S-so are y-you,” you say quietly, as you try to get your breathing under control. He kisses your hand. Hill gets in the driver’s seat and pulls away down the Mall, constantly looking in the rearview mirror to make sure you’re not being followed. She then touches her earpiece and says something you don’t quite catch.

“Hey, what about Tran?” you say, breathing heavily and you start to panic again. “Will they go after her now?”

“No, we’ll text her soon and tell her you’re sick and the lab’s closed tomorrow,” says Hill decisively from the front seat. “And they won’t go after her, not after what happened tonight. But I’ve got an agent watching her and Chinara just in case.” You exhale.

“Do you have a favorite place? Like for vacation?” Clint says, putting his arm around you and pulling you close to him.

“I g-grew up outside Boston,” you answer, “and my grandparents had this cabin on a lake in the mountains in V-vermont. We used to swim and boat in the summer...and the loons called late at night...”

“That sounds amazing,” he says. “Keep thinking of that place. And keep up the deep breathing. That’s right.” Hill turns off Park and heads north along Gorham. You start to feel calmer.

“Where are we going?” you ask him.

“Somewhere very similar to your favorite place,” he says, eyes dancing. “Except instead of a lake there’s a very large river and instead of a cabin there’s a giant architectural eyesore.”

“Hey,” Maria says from the front seat. “It’s not that bad.”

Clint chuckles.

“Tony pays you to say that, doesn’t he.” She shakes her head, but she’s smiling. You laugh, squeeze closer to Clint, and turn your face to his.

“Better?” he signs. In response you lean forward and kiss him again. His eyebrows raise but he enthusiastically returns the kiss, his lips parting almost immediately, until...

“Hey kids, this is a G-rated car, my old withered heart can’t handle it,” says Hill from the front seat, smiling at you in the rearview mirror and then giving Barton a pointed look that couldn’t say _keep it together dude_ more clearly than if she’d said it out loud.

“Sorry, Mom,” Clint says cheekily. He starts doing recon to look for bad guys outside the car but stealthily signs “Wish I were still kissing you” out of Hill’s view. You stifle your laughter with difficulty and lean your head on his large but surprisingly comfortable shoulder.

“Hey, why ‘Birdbrain’?” you say suddenly a few minutes later, lifting your head. Maria bursts out laughing and Clint’s blush reaches down his face to his neck and disappears into his leather vest. You idly wonder how far down that blush goes and grin to yourself.

“Uh...it’s because...uh...my code name is Hawkeye,” he mumbles, looking away.

“Hawkeye?!?” you say, mock-incredulously. “My protector and major crush is named for the...” you pause for dramatic effect. “...Iowa mascot? Hill, let me out of this car right now.” Maria keeps laughing and Clint says in a low voice, “Actually I *am* from Iowa but that’s not where I got my name...”

“Oh my god, I’m kidding,” you say, laughing and reaching one of your arms out from under the blanket to give him a noogie, just like you did earlier this afternoon - though now that feels like a lifetime ago.

You realize how tired you are and stifle a yawn, but Clint sees it and says gently, “Get some rest. We’ll be at the airfield soon.” Then he pulls a phone out of his tac pants and sends a quick text.

**Hawkguy**

All set boss, see you at HQ tomorrow

Thirty seconds later, the phone pings.

**Tony Stank**

Copy that, fuck off with that boss nonsense, laters my dude

You raise your eyebrows and look at Clint. “Charming,” you say wryly. Clint’s lip curls.

“Tony’s...a lot. But he’s a really good guy,” he says.

“It’s true,” Hill pipes up from the driver’s seat. “And he’s really looking forward to meeting you.”

“Sounds good,” you say, yawning again. Your mind is still racing with the events of the evening, but your body is reacting to the excitement and the panic attack by shutting down. Clint gently kisses your forehead. “Just rest now,” he says.

You close your eyes, allowing yourself to relax into Clint’s shoulder again. Your life has been utterly upended, but right now the only thing you can focus on is the two of you in the backseat of this car. You feel comforted and protected. You feel cared for. You feel safe. Clint pockets his phone and gently squeezes your hand.

The lights of the city sparkle against the lake as the car approaches the airfield.

**Author's Note:**

> Bock Labs is a real building on the UW-Madison campus, and all place names refer to actual places. They are doing real work on the HCM virus at these labs, but the idea of genetically altering them to fight disease and strengthen healthy cells is pure speculation.


End file.
